Afterburn
by Miss Snuffles
Summary: Oneshot: Obi-Wan has a chance encounter at a Mos Eisley cantina. Obi/Sabe, 3 years post-RotS


A/N: I wrote this about a year and a half ago (maybe even more) and realized I'd never posted it. The little plot bunny wavered between being a standalone or a possible far off scene at the end of 'One Prick to Bleed' (depending on who died or lived). Basically, it became a way to fulfill my Obi/Sabe urge and make those two stop complaining that I was being too mean in OPtB.

**Afterburn**

Every cantina on Tatooine seemed to cater its own customized stench, Obi-Wan Kenobi mused. Not that he frequented every hive and dive on this barren globe. It was just over the past three years, he'd noticed some places tended to, ah, _stick_ to you after you left it. As if some marketing genius had calculated the right pungency to mark its clientele and spread the scent around. You didn't need to be sober to find your cantina. You only needed to follow the scent like a womp rat.

Obi-Wan inhaled carefully. One never wanted to breathe too deep in The Slosh Bucket. If the smoke didn't asphyxiate a being, the smell certainly would. This particular back-ally cantina in Mos Eisley procured an almost mystic perfume, the base of which, like every other Tatooine cantina, was multi-species sweat and vomit. Yet unlike, say, The Weary Traveler in Anchorhead, the Bucket's cloudy aroma was laced with something sugary sweet. One of these days, he hoped to discover its source.

Of course, the Jedi thought as he slouched down a little more in his shadowy corner niche and took a sip of what the bartender tried to pass off as Corellian ale, this particular mystery was not the purpose of these bi-yearly trips into Mos Eisley. If only it was, Obi-Wan thought, swallowing the warm, stale drink. But he was not about to start on if onlys. He'd spent enough time on that.

At least it was a way to pass the time . . .

Obi-Wan set his tankard down, frowning at himself as the too-translucent amber liquid sloshed around the battered cermaglass. He watched it settle, then lifted his eyes to the hazy, shadowed world around him. _This_ was his drink, letting life, the other beings, the living Force, seep into him. Like alcohol tainting and fulfilling a drunkard's bloodstream.

From this battered, grimy nook, he could see every inch of the cantina, except for the service corridor behind him. Not that he needed eyes to know what was behind him. Dusty, wan light filtered through narrow windows far above anyone's head, and did little to penetrate the dank shadows cloaking the Bucket's dubious patrons. Sometimes, when sand was actually blown away from the windows, or you managed to wheedle Slooper, the bar keep, out of the genuine stock, one could almost make out the feet of passersby. The Bucket hunched meters into the ground and its roof tended to be lost in the ragtag pile of neighboring buildings. This suited the customers just fine. Leave the main cantinas to the obvious spaceport dredge, the "tourists."

Obi-Wan smiled a little to himself and took another swallow. Let the authentic scum have their 'higher standards.' He was rather fond of the Bucket. The clientele was varied and turned over enough that he would not be particularly noticed, but it was too far off the beaten path for quick-fix enterprisers. Conversations and business deals could soak into his ears, even the whispered ones if he made a little effort. He could absorb news from the outside more than he could in Anchorhead, as well as get a broader perspective of opinions and emotional climate. Twice a year he ventured into Mos Eisley for precisely this reason. He must retain familiarization with his resources for when the time came.

The opportune moment. When, maybe, all would not be lost.

The Jedi sighed and took a longer drink. Knock-off ale had no effect on his metabolism. He could breeze through a day and night's worth of tankards and only feel slightly dizzy at the end of it. He'd have to hit the hard stuff, emphatically at that, to swim with the others. But that wasn't the point.

The point was keeping up-to-date on things. Such as the Hutts taking the Empire's continual disinterest in this sector as approval for 'expansion.' Not that this particularly surprised Obi-Wan, but it was an amoral sort of comfort to know the Hutts were unthreatened. They were his gauge for whether or not Tatooine could remain a sanctuary for the boy.

Sitting at a one-legged table leaning against a support pillar, two Rodians bickered over a foiled attempt to undermine a rival clan's smuggling contract. Obi-Wan let his eyes pass over them from behind his cowl. Years ago he would've laughed at the idea of becoming passable in mimicking the specie's peculiar language.

He sank a little deeper into his crooked benchseat. A hint of rectangular illumination on the far side of the crescent bar signaled the forsaken troubadour's return. The skinny Bith limped over to an empty booth, lugging his cylindrical, scuffed-up instrument case. Obi-Wan understood him to be a regular at the Bucket, probably because his music encouraged anyone to drink a little more.

Slooper tossed Obi-Wan a pointed look as he passed by with empty mugs. Obi-Wan knew the look. He took a long swallow, though he did not finish off the drink. Money was not plentiful in fugitive hermithood. He knew how far Slooper would allow his drink to stretch. As long as he ordered another within the next half-standard, Slooper would leave him be. Besides, Obi-Wan always left before it got busy, so as not to become bad for business.

The entrance light flickered on through the haze and a handful of beings drifted in. A corner of his mind buzzed, and he glanced suspiciously at the three-quarters gone ale. No, this was a different sensation. Nor was it new. He leaned back, as if completely relaxed, and studied the newcomers with mild interest. His hood had fallen back, but he didn't bother to raise it. It was worn out of habit rather than necessity, anyway. The desert did sufficient work on his appearance.

The newcomers, five of them, evolved from silhouettes as they came down the stairs. Through the Bucket's ambience, Obi-Wan made out a horned alien, a wrinkle-skinned humanoid, two men, and a slender woman. The Jedi stilled as his senses keened. Slooper, his bald head shining dully under the bar's yellow light, began taking orders from the older of the two men, whose heavy mustache saved him from lip readers. He leaned against the bar, his right hand resting easily on his holster while his counterpart failed to inconspicuously scan the other midday patrons. Or perhaps they did not care for subtlety. Their vests and trousers may once have been respectable, but were worn enough to fit any back of Outer Rim riffraff. The short, wrinkled female shifted on the other side, her sand-dulled poncho widening as she crossed her arms. Over her shoulder waited the tall, horned male, and as he scratched at his cracked horn (the skin was flaking around its base), Obi-Wan could see a sheathed vibroblade along his forearm. The human woman stayed hidden behind them.

His personal clock said it was time for another sip, but Obi-Wan only pretended to stare into the tankard. The heat, that had to be it. Getting to him, even after three years. He would be sure to refresh his canteen before heading back to the Jundland Wastes. If he wasn't careful, he'd start to see mirages. Though, the human part of him had to admit, there were worse illusions to be had.

Slooper traded bland words with Mustache as he mixed five drinks and poured a glass of water. The two nonhumans were turned away from Obi-Wan, perhaps speaking to the party's fifth member, but the horned one kept glancing back, keeping an eye on Slooper. The younger man couldn't hide his interest in the trio, or rather, Obi-Wan suspected, the woman he'd barely glimpsed. Quick, successive thunks and Slooper had all five drinks lined before his patrons like gourmet prizes. The motley group fluttered as hands traded coin chips for drinks. The alien female left with her ion blue drink, headed for one of the wall booths, and the younger man filled the vacant spot.

Obi-Wan saw slender fingers push some chips across the counter, but the eager man covered it. The horned drinker turned just as the young man said, "It's on me." The yellow light caught the tall one's eye roll before he looked down at his still hidden friend and muttered in Kowaki. The hopeful man seemed undeterred or didn't understand, because he grabbed his ale and moved to the other side.

The alien shook his head and followed the first two, finally revealing the woman.

Obi-Wan's fingers pressed into his tankard, feeling a strange jerk of vertigo. As if his pulse had leapt with anticipation, only to be disappointed. Her back was to him, as she'd turned around to greet her benefactor. Was he so lonely to feel a second tinge of—what was this?—hope? He made himself even less noticeable as he studied the slender woman's back with an eagerness that surprised him. Countless women in the galaxy shared this petite frame, and there was nothing distinguishable in the random, small braids in the dark hair she kept back in a loose but neat ponytail. Yet the sensation along his awareness teased him. He was easily persuaded to see the quality in her clothes, in the trim cut of her deep but faded green jacket, or notice the fine seam of her tan breeches, and the care she put into the worn, supple leather for her boots. She could be anyone, Obi-Wan knew, but his fingers flexed around his drink.

The Jedi forced another swallow of ale down. Mr. Hopeful was trying to adopt an easy, relaxed front, but his eyes were too eager, too fixated. She, however, leaned a hip gracefully against the counter. To the unpracticed eye, she appeared relaxed and interested in this man, but Obi-Wan could see attentive balance in her lines. At any moment, she could spring into action. The lazy hang of her right hand belied its awareness of the small, silver blaster on her hip and the vibroblade strapped to her thigh. The Jedi was willing to bet his salvaged speeder bike that her jacket and boots were mini-arsenals.

She turned her head to take a drink of water, and Obi-Wan urged his pulse to steady. But he drank in her profile, feeling a disconcerting mix of triumph and sickness at the familiar slope of her jaw, the short, curved end of her nose, and the long, elegant line of her neck. Even her long, thirsty drink was refined. It was her. He was certain, though he had not seen her in years and in vastly different circumstances.

So now what did he do?

She drank nearly the whole glass before setting it down and turning back to Mr. Hopeful. Did she even glance his way? Obi-Wan could not be sure. The ale swirled illy in his gut, but he took another drink. If she did spot him, did she recognize him? Did she sense him at all? She'd always been too good at it, he remembered. Maybe she had stopped that, for her own sake.

Some of the tension slipped out of him from delayed relief. She was alive. Thank the Force for small gifts.

He focused on her again, uncertain even as he continued to exist in shadowed nonchalance. Should he slip away or subtly make his presence known to her? He could not ascertain what her reaction to him would be, if she had not already identified him. They had not exactly been friends, at least not during their last encounter. Years ago. A different life. What would she do now? Confront him? Ignore him? What did he _want_ her to do?

The loneliness he'd grown accustomed to, had accepted as much as the sand seeping into everything, told him exactly what it wanted. Obi-Wan took a long swig, leaving just enough for another swallow. He could take it up for another. No, it was best to wait. No sense in pushing things and risking his anonymity for the weak desire to connect to someone familiar, to a past less painful than the memories that ceaselessly plagued him.

The incessant man leaned forward in hopeful flirtation, but she seemed to inadvertently dismiss it as she started on her mint-tinted drink. Slooper cast an appreciative look over his shoulder as he wiped out some glasses. Obi-Wan watched her pinky curl slowly, then unfurl along the tall glass's smooth surface. She did not set the drink down, but canted her head to the side and her words floated through the sallow haze to him.

"I believe I'm keeping you from your friends," she said, starting to step past her admirer. The tone-downed accent could not displace the soft but strong voice Obi-Wan remembered.

"They're fine, hold on now," he said, reaching for her elbow. "Let me get you another drink."

She turned and faced him just as his fingertips grazed her arm. Obi-Wan felt an upward jerk in his chest as he could see her fully in that moment. Large, brown eyes showed no alarm, only a spark of amusement, as she looked up at her pursuer. Her lips formed a subtle smirk. The evasion had been effortless, as natural as the sway of a dancer's skirt.

"Offering a woman so many drinks in quick succession will give her the wrong idea about you," she said, cocking her head a little.

"I've just been paid," he said, "and indulging a beauty such as yourself seems like the best way to spend it."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure there are many 'beauties' down the street who would appreciate your _indulgence_."

The back of his neck flushed. "You mistake me completely." The mustached man snorted and the wrinkled woman cackled into her drink.

She allowed him a small, almost sympathetic smile. "It's no fault on your part, but I prefer to drink alone."

"_No_ one likes to drink alone."

Obi-Wan sat practically in her line of sight, but from the corner of his eye, he couldn't detect even a flicker of her ever focusing on him. A hint of sadness played at her little smile. "Some do," she said. In that instant, he thought she might have looked at him, but he could not be sure and it faded quickly away.

"How about just this once you don't?"

Her pinky curled again, this time unfolding with a little more pressure. "I'm sorry, but I'm meeting someone. Just this once."

The mustache man, grinning, got up, calling, "Come on, Nal, we've got other places to be," to which the others snickered. They moved casually as the older man slapped Nal's shoulder. "I'm sure your next drink won't be wasted. There're prettier women out there, even on Tatooine." Then he guffawed.

Obi-Wan mentally cuffed Mustache upside the head, but her face was smooth, only bemusement flashing in her eyes as she looked between the two men.

"I'm sorry for these two, miss," the horned male said as he took Mustache by the elbow.

"I'm only sorry you must share drinks with them," she teased. Then she raised her drink to Nal. "Cheers. May the women be prettier next door."

"Really, I didn't—" Nal started, but the tall one pulled him away and the sundry group shambled up the stairs. She didn't even watch them go, but pulled out one of the beaten stools under the counter ledge. Not a glance at Obi-Wan. But he only hid an amused smile as she had to actually step up a little to perch on the tall stool.

Slooper tossed a look over his broad shoulder, and Obi-Wan caught a shadowed dimple under the light as she gave the bartender a wry grin. Then she seemed to shrink around her drink as one of the Rodians came up for a refill and two more patrons sauntered in. No one paid her mind, she may as well have been the stool itself. She, like Obi-Wan, existed just short of the dingy shadows themselves. As yet another customer came to the counter, the Jedi wondered if this was all it would come to: two shadows skirting the edge of one another. The Jedi in him pondered the unlikelihood of this being a mere coincidence. Could he let it slip away as such?

The other patrons faded back. One clean nail traced the chipped rim, slow and meditative. Obi-Wan glanced into his tankard, tipping it and watching the pitiful remains give a half-hearted swish. The temptation to stretch out with the Force, to get a closer sense of her, itched his necessary constraint. If only he could get a hint from her or the Force, then he'd know whether to make a move. Or he could completely misread everything and the entire galaxy would upend itself.

He ruefully scratched at his beard. Somehow he could not quite see the fate of the galaxy teetering on his indecision to approach a woman at a bar. Of course, he should never underestimate its deciding factors ever again.

Slooper retrieved the empties from the Nal and Mustache party, and the solitary Bith finally strummed the courage to begin. The Rodians paused in their debate to regard the hesitant quaver from the pale musician's long instrument, then went back to arguing, now with gesticulations. She shifted a little, opening her left shoulder to the Bith's strains. Obi-Wan noticed a lock of hair had escaped the leather band, but then she reached up and tucked it delicately behind her ear before taking another drink.

As Slooper passed by, loaded with the empties, he shot Obi-Wan a meaningful look. No more dawdling. The Jedi sighed and swallowed the last just as the keep slipped behind the bar again. Did she just catch a glance? No, it must've been his imagination and the discolored smoke wafting through wan beams of light. She only took another drink, the glass almost empty.

Slooper looked right at him. Oh, how he missed the days when Jedi in bars were not to be trifled with. Rolling his eyes, Obi-Wan unfolded from the nook, keeping everything neutral as he approached the bar. Slooper lifted his eyebrows questioningly. She didn't look up from two seats away.

Obi-Wan let his eyes slide over her to Slooper and nodded once. "Another, thanks."

Just as he put the chips on the counter, she said, "On me."

He tried not to turn his head too sharply at her quiet words. Slooper turned around, smoke-strained eyes darting between them. She continued to study her drink for a moment, then looked up at the barkeep. "But make it something decent. Rishi whiskey," she said, then dropped her chin again. "From one solitary drinker to another." When she lifted her eyes to Obi-Wan, for just a moment, it was enough.

"One Rishi," Slooper grunted, thrusting the tankard of deep red liquid toward Obi-Wan. He hesitated just a second. Whatever he did now would be a signal. He could refuse the offer, or take it. Perhaps he could merely shift the next move back to her.

He took the tankard and held her gaze. "My thanks, m'lady," Obi-Wan nodded. He stepped back, feeling a tug at the corners of his mouth as her eyes widened slightly. Then he turned casually back to his booth, aware of the little exhale behind him.

"Another, please," she muttered as he slid back into his niche.

Obi-Wan tested the whiskey and nearly choked on amusement. The alcohol burned like an antiseptic through his nose as he breathed, but it was not unpleasant. He raised an eyebrow at the petite woman sliding off the stool, a fresh drink in her right hand. She approached, casual and assured in her grace. When she paused at his table, her mouth couldn't resist a pleased quirk.

"Sabé," Obi-Wan smiled.

"Thought you might like it," she said. "Interesting place you've got here," she added, looking around. Her fingertips played the rim, and Obi-Wan had a peculiar urge to clasp them. Despite all her training, Sabé's hands tended to betray her. She caught his look and stopped abruptly.

"Care to join me?" said Obi-Wan, making room on the crooked nook bench.

For a long moment, Sabé just stared at him, unreadable. Then she raised an eyebrow. "You really make a girl work for an invite."

Obi-Wan suppressed a smirk as she slipped in beside him. Again, he felt a spin of vertigo, his senses acutely aware of her faint, familiar echo in the Force, the ducking of her head as she managed to neatly slide between the table and bench. He felt her inhale just as she settled, her leg just brushing his. The Jedi mentally steadied himself. This was the closest he'd been to a Force-sensitive being in three years, even one as minimally sensitive as Sabé. The deprivation had to explain the rush, for Sabé was particularly adept at shielding.

They both sat very still. Sabé leaned slightly over her drink, nimble hands clasped around it. Though he pretended to likewise study his whisky, Obi-Wan watched how she briefly bit her lower lip. The sensory rush faded away and he took a drink, remembering soberly the last time they'd been in each other's presence. Not on pleasant terms or in friendly moods.

She took a deep breath, shoulders easing back as she relaxed her hold. When Sabé turned to him, he caught a glimpse of some fierce emotion slipping behind her steady mask. "It's good to see you."

Obi-Wan scratched at his beard, thinking he should've trimmed it before today's jaunt. Then he folded his hands within his weathered robe, unable to look at her. Suddenly he wished he'd left the cantina early, or had saved Mos Eisley for tomorrow. No sarlaac pit could swallow him wholly enough. Shame that he'd managed to let go returned, stirring the ale in his gut. She had no reason to find it good to see him. His continued existence should probably be an affront to her. Although he had not single-handedly brought the galaxy to its knees, his hands were not washed of it. Why would she willingly sit here with him? She wouldn't if she knew he could've stopped some of this, if she knew he could have destroyed the black weapon tearing through the galaxy. The flames of Mustafar licked at his insides.

"I shouldn't have bothered you," Sabé murmured, startling Obi-Wan.

He blinked as she started to get up. "No—wait—" Desperately he reached for her arm. Sabé froze, looking down at him. The jacket's faded cloth felt sturdy and real under his hand, though softened from wear. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I just . . . I don't know what to say."

She glanced down at his hand on her arm, and he sheepishly let go. All the solitude was making him behave oddly. Sabé, however, slowly sat down again, her expression soft. She took a slow sip, set it carefully down, and then turned to Obi-Wan, chin on her hand. "So, do you come here often?"

Obi-Wan grunted and lifted the whisky to his lips. "Oh, every now and then."

"It's charming."

"Yes, especially the smell."

Sabé gave a short laugh, and Obi-Wan marveled how she lit up under the gloom. A flash of teeth, the crinkle around brightened eyes. Then she quieted and pressed her lips together, as if to restrain any and all emotion. Obi-Wan looked away, wishing she'd kept laughing. It had sounded more musical than the Bith's dirge.

"So, what brings you to Tatooine?" he said, taking another drink before meeting her gaze again.

Sabé shrugged.

"Smuggling?"

"A lady never tells," she said, raising a sly eyebrow. Then she straightened up. "Honestly, can no one think of any alternative than smuggling?"

"You are in Hutt space."

Sabé frowned at this.

"How_is_ Naboo?" Obi-Wan asked quietly.

"Managing." She cast a general glare around the Bucket, then slipped behind her cool mask again. "The Hutts would like to take it, but they won't dare touch it if," and Sabé lowered her voice even further, her lips barely moving, "our illustrious leader shows any sort of . . . affection for his homeworld."

Obi-Wan had little doubt how she felt about that. Or projected to feel. As the whiskey mixed with the ale, he felt his guard returning. "So, I take it you've left the Core," he said carefully. This was foolish. He _knew_ her abilities as a spy, at trickery, at slipping past people's awareness. Last he'd known her, she'd been fine-tuning her talents behind-the-scenes on Coruscant. When he chanced to discover information she held, it had frayed the friendly ties they'd formed on Naboo over a decade ago. Then everything had, well, exploded. How could he not suspect she was deeply embedded in the Core? That the Empire's grip had clasped her too? It would be stupid to think someone as adept as Sabé would simply happen upon this very cantina on the second day out of the year he would be here.

"It got a little crowded," she said, tapping her pinky against the glass's thick bottom. "I never cared much for the Core, you know."

"It wasn't that bad," Obi-Wan murmured, thinking he should've slipped out the moment she'd entered. Or waited and lured her out the back—

—and what? Mind tricked her? Knocked her unconscious? Or worse?

"Of course you don't mind it," she scoffed. "You grew up there, all posh and central."

"Naboo is hardly backwater."

Sabé smiled wistfully but sadly. "No, it is not." Her brow furrowed. "Not yet, anyway." Obi-Wan recognized the look; it was the same determination and lethal promise she'd worn before the Battle of Naboo.

"So you slipped under Imperial radar . . ."

"I have a knack," she said lightly, taking another drink. Then she caught his dubious look and ducked her head, an embarrassed, self-deprecating laugh escaping her. "Well, usually I do. I confess, you knocked me off-balance when I came in."

"Am I that obvious?" Obi-Wan openly studied her through the Force. Her flutter felt genuine and rather piqued his curiosity. Still, he couldn't fathom her appearance being mere coincidence, if such a thing truly existed. Did she come with an agenda? Or did the Force have one? Whichever, this dance of concealment was normal in Sabé.

"No," and then she mumbled something even too low for Obi-Wan to hear.

"Pardon?" he said, leaning toward her.

"I said—" Sabé faced him and huffed, "I can always tell when you're near." She seemed irritated and cornered at once, and lowered her gaze to her drink before downing some more.

This puzzled Obi-Wan. She'd confessed as much on Naboo, mostly because he'd prodded it out of her. Why should she act like this now? She was definitely hiding something underneath the statement. Of course. He pondered this and felt the Rishi whiskey burn down his throat.

"Quite the drink for a lady to recommend," he said, tapping the tankard.

Sabé smirked and propped her chin up again. "That's going _easy_ on you. Besides, I couldn't let you keep drinking that rubbish. A man must really hate himself—" She stopped, and Obi-Wan looked away, jaw tight. For one horrible moment, he thought she might apologize—he swore she breathed in to do so—but instead there was only the dull thunk of her empty glass. But then he could feel her studying him, and Obi-Wan glanced back to find mischief lurking along the tilt of her lips.

"What?"

"Nothing." But the secretive grin only spread, and Sabé pressed her lips together to stop it.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, remembering past exchanges on Naboo. On more than one occasion, the handmaiden had briefly lightened his brooding with a wry comment or tease (the latter if she were feeling particularly daring). No doubt she was doing so now, but he could not be sure if he appreciated it or not.

"It's just . . . you look a little frightening."

"Pardon?"

"The beard—" She gestured with a fluttery hand. "It's just _awful_. Worse than on Coruscant."

Obi-Wan sat up, scowling and rubbing the sun-lightened mass on his chin. Okay, it was getting a little unruly, he had to admit, but it was for the cause. His persona as an eccentric, possibly mad Ben Kenobi, the strange man who lived out in the Jundland Wastes. This beard served a purpose. "It needs a trim, I admit," he said, "but what was wrong with it on Coruscant?"

Sabé coughed and gulped the last of her drink. "Nothing."

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow and he caught the flash of her grin before she employed a serious expression.

"Honestly, there's nothing wrong with it. If you're a Wookiee." Then she leaned forward and patted his arm, as if to reassure him. "Some faces should just never be hidden, that's all."

"First you insult me, then you flatter me. Do you mean to confuse me, m'lady?"

"If only it'll make _that_ disappear," Sabé laughed, nodding to his chin. Obi-Wan felt a smile slip out and relaxed a little more. He tried not to think about how long it'd been since he'd traded any sort of banter, especially with a friend.

"I'll get the next round." Grabbing their empties, Obi-Wan headed for the bar, fully aware of her eyes on him. He should be getting some definitive answers out of her, most importantly, what she was doing here. But, really, he was inclined to just let things play out. If he wanted to be dishonest, he could claim it was the alcohol working on him. It had nothing to do with his mixed feelings surrounding the petite woman insulting his beard.

The Jedi Master grinned a little as he handed the empties over to Slooper. She was not about to get away with her lady-drink. This round was on him. "Two Malastare Afterburns, half spent, and some crisps, please."

Slooper was clearly impressed and amused by this, and muttered a blessing in Huttese as he tended to the order. The drink had been first introduced to him on a mission with Qui-Gon far too many years ago. It was a good bluff drink to those unfamiliar with it. In the first five minutes after concoction, it admitted a fiery orange plume, and it rendered one's throat to cinders going down. But its initial kick had little follow-through on the senses. Of course, this also lulled the unfamiliar drinker into a sense of confidence and security just before he or she vomited. Qui-Gon had slipped Obi-Wan some crisps shortly after his initial swallow, and thus, the then Padawan had impressed their 'patrons' into successful negotiation.

This had been left out of the Council report, of course.

"Cheers," Obi-Wan said to Slooper, taking the pints and crisp bag with a nod.

"I hope so."

Sabé had one booted leg tucked up on the bench when Obi-Wan set the fuming drinks down, her ponytail falling over her left shoulder. For just a moment, she looked almost ten years younger, taking simple joy out of being alive for her planet's celebration ball. Then she cast the Afterburns an appraising look and the fortified woman returned. He slid into his seat, suddenly keenly aware of a scent other than the Slosh Bucket's putrid air atmosphere.

"Afterburns," said Sabé sitting up a little and draping her arm over her knee. "I've seen what these do."

"That's what these are for," he said, opening the crisp packet for her. Their elbows and thighs were touching. Certainly the heightened awareness this lent him was due to his lack of physical contact in years. He breathed deeply, noting the fresh hint of her scent through the pungent air. Dusty but clean, how a waterfall could exist in the desert.

Sabé studied the packet dubiously. "Honestly, I take back the beard comment. It's lovely."

Obi-Wan chuckled and placed a mug firmly in front of her. "Cheers, my friend."

"You shouldn't be allowed to have drinks," she muttered darkly.

"Some of our most successful missions were conducted in cantinas." Stretching an arm along the back of the bench, Obi-Wan cast his face into perfect Jedi serenity.

The Rodians harassed the Bith into an awkward attempt at a jaunty tune. Sabé glanced over and pursed her lips. "I never thought to see you in such a dive as this."

"This? Oh, this is nothing," Obi-Wan used the hand that'd been resting on his knee to rake through his hair. "If you really wanted to slum it, there was the Hell's Chance . . . I wonder if it's still there . . ." he trailed off. For some reason it seemed important the deathtrap still remain as a rude gesture to the Galactic Empire, like a seedy but righteous banner.

Sabé gazed at him, her cheek resting against the arm over her knee. The long, embedded pain he tried to keep at bay surfaced in the shadows along her face, in her quiet, shallow little breaths. He yearned to touch the hair falling over her shoulder and tell her he was sorry, sorry for everything. Whether or not he should have trusted or forgiven her on Coruscant was irrelevant. Even if she was here on some agenda didn't matter. The ache was genuine, the pain too real. And he had caused it, whether through what he had done or had failed to do. This he had accepted, but it still hurt. Especially when he saw it in those around him.

Obi-Wan hunched forward, folding his hands around the tankard, feeling the Afterburn's heat flow into his palms. Then warm, slender fingers slipped between his palm and the cermaglass. They were surprisingly strong for looking so delicate.

"You're alive," said Sabé softly, intensely. She was so close, so pinched-looking from holding it all in. Unable or not wanting to comprehend, Obi-Wan stared down at their hands under the dispelling, fiery cloud. "I hoped—I thought I might know if you . . . if you died, as the HoloNet said. Then," she huffed derisively. Obi-Wan looked up. She smiled wanly at him, so close he could detect a hint of her last drink in her breath. "Then I chalked that up to delusion. I just _wanted_ you to be alive."

Slowly turning his palm up, her fingertips falling along the calluses, Obi-Wan sensed he may be painfully burned by this salve. "Why?"

Sabé looked down, and he felt trembling through her hand. "I—knowing you survived . . . everything hurts a little less."

"Sabé . . ."

"Let's do this properly." She straightened up, clearing her throat, and released Obi-Wan's hand to take her Afterburn. His palm still tingled, as if she left prints on him. She was waiting. He raised his own steaming mug up, and Sabé smiled, tight and determined. "To disgusting, vagrant-ridden cantinas."

"May they survive us all," Obi-Wan murmured, knocking their mugs together. Their eyes met as they lifted the still smoking drink to their lips.

At once hot, scathing liquid poured down his throat. Purging him, turning his insides into temporary ash. Sabé's eyes snapped shut, then burst open as she keeled forward, gasping and coughing. Her mug slammed onto the table, sloshing over the rim.

"Easy, easy," said Obi-Wan, rubbing between her shoulder blades.

"—arse—" she choked out.

"I thought you were made of stronger stuff," Obi-Wan teased. Her ponytail fell back over his hand, splaying like dark, silken threads over his desert roughened skin.

Sabé coughed again, shoulders hunching. "I thought I was, too." A bare whisper, but he felt it through her body, through his hand soothing the taut, slim muscles between her shoulders. She gasped, a half-sob, and he heard it. "I failed her. I could've saved her."

"No, Sabé, that isn't right," said Obi-Wan, running his hand over her shoulder, turning her toward him. She kept her head down, and he did wonder what she possibly thought she could have done to save Padmé Amidala; Sabé had not been a handmaiden then. "You know this, Sabé. Look at me," he said, gently but firmly.

She complied, revealing tears escaping probably against her will. "How did she die?"

Obi-Wan looked away.

"He did it."

Closing his eyes, he nodded.

"This stuff could burn it out," she mumbled, lurching forward for the dying fumes.

The Jedi pulled her back as he opened his eyes. "These first," he said, tossing the crisp packet in front of her. "Or we'll both be retching."

"I do feel rather sick," Sabé croaked. Popping a couple crisps into her mouth, she slumped back, and Obi-Wan found his arm slipping naturally around her shoulders. Her eyelids fluttered as she dropped her head against his shoulder. He felt her sigh, and it helped him release some of the ache. Without a word, she offered the crisps, holding the packet open for him.

The Rodians got up and left, and the Bith immediately ceased his pitiable attempt at a lively tune. As the starchy crisps neutralized the fermenting boil in his stomach, Obi-Wan recognized the somewhat forlorn strains of a Tatooine ballad. It was soothing, he thought, letting his cheek lie against the top of Sabé's head. Her hair smelled like sun heat and something earthy—a heady, sweet mix of floral and sweat. He breathed deeply. They didn't speak until the music ended, the Afterburns ceased to even wisp, and the troubadour hopelessly tried another cheerful melody.

Sabé reached for her harmless mug and only mildly winced as she drank. "This reminds me a bit of that concoction the Gungans brought to the ball."

Obi-Wan chuckled, and their Afterburns gradually disappeared as they reminisced over their first days on Tatooine and the opulent celebration Naboo indulged in following its reclaimed freedom. For a short while, this conversing over drinks with a long-lost friend almost felt real, natural. But it grew too difficult to talk around the truth lying behind their words. The Jedi, the grief still throbbing from the past, what was happening now . . . it could not be said here, even if they dared. Not the whole of it.

Finally, when they had both been quiet and Sabé was staring off at the Bith, Obi-Wan asked, "Why are you here?"

She tensed and didn't answer for a moment. "I guess you could say I'm between jobs."

Although Obi-Wan detected a certain truth in her answer, he could feel she may as well be flat out lying.

"I should be going," Sabé said, glancing at him fleetingly. Suddenly he could get no sense of her, no insight to what she was thinking or why she had to take flight. Obi-Wan could only watch as she slid out of the nook. There was nothing he could do. He knew this. Felt it. She hesitated on the other side of the table and bit her lip as she looked down at him. "Goodbye," she said softly. Then she walked away, the murky shadows reclaiming her.

She was gone. Obi-Wan sat very still, staring at their empty drinks and the crumpled crisp packet. Accepting this. The Force had a purpose for this interlude. Perhaps it was a brief reconnection with the galaxy he hid from, or a reminder that this solitude went beyond his last mission for Luke. Or maybe this had nothing to do with the cause, maybe it had something to do with him. Absolution. Though Sabé was not who would've first come to mind. Maybe he didn't understand at all. But as he sat in this crooked nook, familiar loneliness settling around him again, Obi-Wan did not need to understand why their paths had briefly intertwined. He was just grateful they had. Before this exile Obi-Wan had not been alone, not truly. At the Temple he'd had friends, then his apprenticeship to Qui-Gon, where he became a half rather than a single entity. Then there had been Anakin. In the last years of his training, Obi-Wan had joked he looked forward to the return of single status in the Temple. It felt like fate played a cruel joke on him now. Some days he had to work to believe in the old maxim that no one was ever truly alone in the Force. He believed it, felt it, but Obi-Wan realized he missed the partnership of beings. It proved he was a living person and not already an indefinite specter.

The Bith concluded his performance and The Slosh Bucket's crowd was changing. Obi-Wan slowly stood up, subtly stretching his limbs before taking the mugs up to the bar. Slooper nodded and the Jedi paused to sweep every inch of the cantina, and even braved an intentional sniff. Disgusting. Then he went up the uneven, sandy steps, knowing in a moment no one would remember.

Blinding light and intense heat of Tatooine's late afternoon enveloped Obi-Wan the instant he stepped out. Whoever said it was only a dry heat was seven levels of idiot. The Jedi let the twin suns, slowly edging down the otherwise empty sky, crack into his skin. It felt good, for just a moment. Then he stepped into the shadows cast by the surrounding stacks of mudhuts and canopies. He followed the narrow, sandy path around the Slosh Bucket's dome to where his Jawa-repaired speeder bike was waiting to carry him back across the desert under the beginnings of a long and spectacular binary sunset.

Sensing her, Obi-Wan looked up and halted.

Sabé was sitting on the edge of the long saddle of his bike. A few seconds passed, a ship rattled overhead. Then Obi-Wan walked up to her, wondering if the drinks had dehydrated him and this was just a mirage or his failure to let go. He stopped a step from her. She stood up, brown eyes dark with a decision.

Then, with a sharp breath, she closed the space between them. It was shocking, this fierce contact of her lips on his. A contradiction of soft heat and hard desperation. In that rush she must've dropped her shields or lost them, he could feel the pounding in her chest, an overwhelming cacophony of emotions, at the height of which searing joy and unbridled fear were nearly awash in raw need. It nearly lost him, but he focused on the tangible, firm pressure of her hands, one behind his head, the other cupping his cheek, anchoring him. Then the reality of her mouth, the absorption this was a kiss. He should do something about this.

She broke away with a gasp, her forehead against his chin. Obi-Wan didn't move as she seemed to stopper the flood of emotions. The hand buried in his hair slid down to the side of his neck, the other falling to his left shoulder.

"Obi-Wan," she said, breath against his neck. It sent a jolt through him. In the cantina, she hadn't once said his name. Probably to be safe in case of eavesdroppers, but it felt like it meant something from her lips, if just for a second.

The shock wearing off, he cupped her elbow, to get a grip on what had just happened. Sabé lifted her head and looked him in the eye calmly. Her hands dropped to her sides. "I had to," she said quietly. "I had to come. I kept dreaming about you, not memories or fantasies. When you asked me why I was here, I lied." She tilted her head back as if to laugh, then dropped her chin, licking her lips. Lost hands folded and unfolded before she met his gaze again.

"It's ridiculous, I know. I tried to ignore them, but the name Anchorhead just lodged itself in my head. But when I got here, to Mos Eisley, I had a hunch and followed it." Reaching up, she touched his cheek, a rueful, sad sort of smile gracing her. Curse the beard, Obi-Wan thought, it got in the way. "I probably shouldn't have done that," she murmured, gaze dropping to his mouth, making him swallow. "I had to, if only just once."

"It was fine," he heard himself say. He touched the loose hair around her neck. "Shocking."

Biting her lip sheepishly, she dropped her hand and looked around the speeder lot. Obi-Wan studied her, feeling Tatooine's heat and seeing it wave in his peripheral. He remembered standing beside this woman on a cold Tatooine night long ago. Two strangers connecting through loneliness rendered from their duties.

Sabé lifted her chin, an old, familiar strength joining the hope he saw in her gaze. "Can I get a ride to Anchorhead?"

Obi-Wan stared off over her shoulder, seeing the little heat waves dance beyond the baked dome of the cantina. The not yet revealed future hadn't changed, he could sense that much. This moment, this day even, did not concern what could be years from now. The here and the now; where deep in the past, he had been told to look, to live. The Force worked in odd ways, sometimes.

"Get on," said Obi-Wan, mounting the speeder bike. Sabé wordlessly slid in behind him. When her arms slipped under his and locked around his torso, they felt sure. Not permanent, but right in their placement. "We should be home before dark," he said as he started the vehicle.

Sabé tightened her arms around him, and somehow he knew she'd burrow into his back when they came to the wide, empty desert.


End file.
